by Thomas Webb
“This ‘someone’ sounds very wise,” Ayita said. Then, she grew serious. “May the spirits guide you in saving your capital, Julius.” She put her hand to his cheek. “Be safe.”
Then, she was gone.
Montclair watched her gallop away, her Croatan and Freedmen fighters following close behind her.
A thought occurred to him as they rode out of sight. Not far away, several of his troops stood watch over the Confederate prisoners. He called one over.
“Get those rebs onboard and in the stockade,” Montclair said. “I want them interrogated immediately. Have the DSI agents see to it.”
“What should I tell them are the terms of the interrogation, sir?” the soldier asked.
Montclair set his jaw. “There aren’t any. Too much at stake for us to be asking politely. And one last thing. Pass the word I want sky under our feet in the next ten minutes. We’ve got ourselves a ship to catch.”
21 Wastelands of the Demilitarized Zone, Old Fairfax Waystation, July 1864
The Union soldier stifled a yawn and extended his hand. “Papers, sir?”
Horton smiled as he handed over the forged documents.
The heavyset soldier glanced at them. “Says here you’re traveling on business, Mr. . . Obadiah Collins. Out of Baltimore, Maryland.”
“That’s right,” Horton said, affecting a passable Northern accent.
“What’s your business in the capital today, Mr. Collins?” the soldier asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Delivery,” Horton said. “We’re dropping off some inventory. My company has several storehouses in Washington.”
“We?” the soldier said.
“My staff and I.” Horton nodded toward some of his Shadow Army troops, who were dressed as laborers. The men grunted and groaned in the predawn gloom as they lugged a gigantic wooden crate from a flatbed steam carriage.
“What sort of inventory are you shipping, Mr. Collins?” the soldier asked, the suspicion in his voice just barely evident. He inspected Horton’s documents more closely before handing them back.
“Spices, mostly. Just getting back from a trip to Java, matter of fact. Usually a pleasant enough place but this trip was overly long by half. Be good to get home, though.” Horton beamed like a proud business owner.
“Any reason you’re shipping these crates by train, Mr. Collins? Seems like airship would have been the best way.”
Horton caught himself before he rolled his eyes. He wished he could just gut the soldier and be done with it. It was just what he needed, another Yankee threatening to further muck up his and the cabal’s plans.
Horton leaned in close. “I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, corporal, but I’m deathly afraid of flying. We made the whole entire trip by sea.”
The soldier raised an incredulous eyebrow. “By sea?”
Horton nodded slowly. “Had every intention of sailing right into Baltimore harbor, but we stopped off in the Caribbean, and there was a message waiting for me. My partner’d wired me, said this inventory was needed in Washington right away. So I had the ship’s captain change course. We sailed into the deep harbor at Norfolk and hired these steam carriages to haul everything overland. That was yesterday evening. Travelled all night just to get here.”
The soldier eyed the crates. “Why not take them all the way by steam carriage, then?”
The soldier’s curiosity was beginning to wear thin, but Horton did have to admit, this one was perceptive. Horton could only imagine what he’d done to pull such a shit duty as this.
“Those carriages have to be back in Norfolk by tonight,” Horton said. “Not enough time to get to Washington, unload, and cross the wastelands again. Just enough time if I send the flatbeds back and send our wares the rest of the way by train.”
“You won’t mind us checking your cargo, then?” the soldier said, already moving in the direction of the crates.
On the flight up, Horton had changed from his dress grays to civilian clothes. He felt the reassuring weight of the Colt holstered at his ribcage inside his suit jacket. His men’s rifles were within easy reach, covered by the tarps they’d thrown over the crates. The muscles in Horton’s hand tightened, ready to draw if the Yankee soldiers inspected the crates too closely.
The corporal signaled inside the building, and two other Union soldiers appeared. Horton knew from his earlier reconnaissance reports there were ten of them at the small waystation garrison, too few to pose a threat to his own well-trained shock troops. Together, the three Yankees pried the lid off the nearest crate. One of them sniffed at the bright red dust inside and erupted in a fit of sneezing.
The Union corporal dismissed his counterparts and put the lid back on the crate. “Seems like a steep price to pay, Mr. Collins, shipping all this by sea just on account of being scared to fly. Everything appears to be in order, though.” He touched the brim of his cap. “Apologies for the inconvenience. Just no such thing as being too carful nowadays. You and your men need help loading your cargo?”
Horton’s gun hand relaxed. “No, thank you. We can manage.”
The soldier made his way down the waystation’s rickety platform and returned to his post. This ramshackle building was all that remained of the once bustling city of Fredericksburg. Horton recalled traveling here once as a child, back before the war. Fredericksburg had been the jewel of northern Virginia then, before the bombs transformed broad swaths of the border states into the blackened wastelands of the demilitarized zone.
Horton stood beneath the station’s dilapidated awning, watching as eight of his men struggled to load the crate with the large letter “O” branded on its side. He’d burned the marking into the wood himself. It wouldn’t do to lose track of which crate the device was in.
The locomotive, a state-of-the art Baldwin 6000, loosed a lonesome, piercing whistle. Built at the Baldwin Locomotive works in Eddystone, Pennsylvania, it was a behemoth of a machine, designed to be the latest in speed, power, and luxury. Horton smiled at the thought of using such a marvel of Union technology as the means of delivering its destruction.
The conductor popped his head out from one of the passenger cabins. “Ten minutes to departure!” he called out.
Horton checked his pocket watch and smiled to himself. The 3:00 AM to Washington was right on schedule. It was a good bit of luck after the earlier run in with DSI. Remembering it made Horton’s blood boil.
That damned Yankee intelligence agency. How the hell had they found the barn so fast? They’d almost ruined everything!
And damn that mulatto-looking bastard of theirs, too. Leave it to DSI to stoop so low as to hire a mongrel to do their dirty work. Horton knew the half-breed was trouble, knew it the second they’d locked eyes back at Smythe’s stuffy soiree. Horton’s instincts immediately told him the half-breed was bad news, but he hadn’t listened. He cursed himself for not pinning the abomination to the wall of Smythe’s ballroom with his saber when he had the chance. At least the mulatto sonofabitch and his DSI masters were stranded back in North Carolina. They were Smythe’s problem now.
The loading of the cargo complete, Horton’s men exited the freight car and began making their way to the passenger compartments.
One of them, a Shadow Army lieutenant, approached. “We’re ready, sir,” he said.
“Is the Raven sky-borne?” Horton asked.
“Yes, sir, general. She took off about a quarter turn o’ the clock past. Should be well on her way to the secondary hangar by now.”
“Good. Wait for all the passengers to board. Then, we’ll see to that other business.”
The Shadow Army soldier nodded and went off to follow his orders.
Minutes later, Horton kneeled behind a stack of crates adjacent to the waystation. His dead blue eyes gazed down at the rapidly cooling Union corpse at his feet. He wiped the blood from his knife and slid it back into his boot.
Just then, the lieutenant returned. “We’re good, sir. No witnesses from the Union garrison. Ju
st like you asked.”
“Very good, lieutenant. Get the men boarded. Quickly. And I want lookouts posted in every passenger car between the caboose and the engine.”
“You expecting company, general?” the lieutenant asked.
“No. Not really.” Horton looked down at the rapidly cooling body of the Union corporal. “Just no such thing as being too careful nowadays is all.”
22 Skies Above Virginia, Outskirts of the Wastelands of the Demilitarized Zone, July 1864
A chill wind cut Montclair to the bone as the airship sped through the sky. His muscles convulsed with the effort of suppressing a shiver. The air was always so much colder at altitude, but the view was worth it. They’d broken cloud cover more than half a turn o' the clock past, and now, the stars shone above them like jewels on black velvet.
Montclair and Greg hurriedly made their way across Vindication’s foredeck while Major Vincent struggled to keep up and brief them at the same time.
“We stayed as close as we could to Virginia, sir,” Montclair’s executive officer said between breaths. “Just as you ordered. The Saratoga found us yesterday. They had the DSI agent’s message detailing the location of the barn, along with orders straight from the president himself.”
“And you flew through Confederate territory to reach us?” Montclair asked. “That’s quite a risk, Major.”
“It was, sir. A roll of the dice to be sure, but I thought it was warranted under the circumstances.”
Montclair raised an eyebrow. “A roll of the dice?” He smiled and gave Major Vincent a pat on the back. “I knew I made you my XO for a reason.”
“You must be one hell of a gambler, Captain,” Greg added.
“A fair hand at poker, sir,” Major Vincent replied as they came to a doorway.
The three men stepped through and jogged down a flight of metal stairs, returning the salutes of several passing crew as they went. They took a side corridor and entered Vindication’s war room. When Montclair stepped through the hatch, everyone in the crowded space stood.
Montclair waved off the courtesy. “Please, take your seats,” he said.
Montclair noted the faces in the room: the sergeant major, the captain of Vindication’s ship’s guard, the DSI agents, and several of Greg’s Marines. Ueda had also agreed to join at Montclair’s invitation. As usual, the samurai stood rather than sat. The head matron of Vindication’s contingent of healers and the ship’s head engineer were both notably absent.
“Good to see you again, Ueda-san.” Montclair clasped the samurai’s forearm in greeting.
“Julius-san,” the warrior from Nippon said, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword.
Montclair took a seat at the large metal table in the center of the room. To Montclair’s right were Agents Copperhead, Scarlet, and Fortenberry. Greg sat to his left, and next to Greg was Sergeant Major French.
“I see you managed to find your way back,” the old soldier said. “Took you long enough.”
Montclair smiled. “Ran into a bit of trouble, sergeant major. We all here?”
“Only missing the head matron and engineering,” the sergeant major said. “Per your orders, the Head Matron’s busy prepping the sick bay for casualties, and Chief Maddern’s below decks trying to squeeze every ounce of blood he can from the engines. Hear him tell it, there’s a more than fair chance one of ‘em will blow ‘fore we can catch this black ship of yours.”
“We don’t move fast enough we won’t catch them anyway,” Montclair said. Then he called for quiet and addressed the room. “The black airship left Greenville less than a turn o’ the clock prior to Vindication’s arrival. Onboard was General George Horton of the Confederate peacekeeping forces as well as an unknown number of Shadow Army regulars. Thanks to the efforts of our guests from Strategic Intelligence, we also know they have a weapon of some sort, one we think is massive enough to threaten Washington.”
“What kind of weapon is big enough to threaten an entire city?” Major Vincent asked.
Montclair looked at the Strategic Intelligence operatives. “Agents?”
“We have some information,” Scarlet said, “but we aren’t at liberty to share it.”
“Dammit,” Greg swore. “Just when I was starting to warm up to you three.”
Sergeant Major French leaned across the table. “Is there anything you and your minder can tell us, agent?”
The red-haired operative shook her head. “I don’t like it any more than you, sergeant major, but—”
Copperhead put up his hand. He turned to Scarlet. “If we’re going to ask the men and women of this airship to risk their lives for something, the least we can do is tell them why. The time for secrets has passed.”
She nodded and gave her minder the floor.
The old DSI agent pulled out a leather-bound notebook. His hand shook as he opened it—barely noticeable, but Montclair saw it. He filed the information away for later.
Copperhead cleared his throat. “Several months ago, a scientist named Mudrac Telacivic went missing. Dr. Telacivic is known for his work with the element aether. At the time of his disappearance, he’d begun experimenting with the dark form of the substance.”
Murmurs broke out in the war room.
The sergeant major let out a low whistle. “Dark aether, is it? Christ the Healer.”
Copperhead nodded. “As we all know, dark aether is outlawed by every civilized nation on earth, and its use is expressly forbidden by the Alchemists Guilds. Despite the risks, Telacivic continued his experiments and achieved some level of success. Unfortunately, his success attracted a great deal of attention. The guilds placed a price on Telacivic’s head. Every government and criminal organization in the known world is searching for him.”
“And let me guess,” Greg said. “Someone found him. And by ‘someone’, I mean DSI.”
“It was the department's intent to take Telacivic into custody,” Copperhead said, “but somebody beat us to the punch. We think it was the Shadow Army.”
The sergeant major shot Montclair a look and then turned toward Copperhead. “You think Telacivic is on this black ship? And that some sort of weapon forged from dark aether is onboard as well?”
Copperhead nodded. “We do.”
The room went quiet.
Major Vincent broke the silence. “Vindication is the fastest Eagle class airship in the Union fleet. Nothing the Confederacy has can match us. Couldn’t we just overtake this black ship?”
Montclair frowned. “I saw the black ship take to the air. She moved fast. Damn fast. We may be able to catch her. We may not. Either way, we’re going to try. I’ve ordered Chief Maddern to run us with the gauges as far in the red as possible.”
“How long can we fly like that?” Greg asked.
“For as long as we need to,” Montclair said, “or until the engines blow and Vindication shakes herself apart. Whichever comes first.”
“Been thinking on this some, colonel,” the sergeant major said. “Doesn’t make any sense. The capitol’s air defenses are near-on impenetrable. Even a black ship in the dead of night don’t stand a chance of making it past the patrols.”
“If they can’t deliver the weapon all the way to the city, then what are they doing out here?” Greg asked. He scratched his head. “We’re missing something.”
The jangle of the war room loudaphone jarred everyone from their thoughts. Major Vincent snatched up the earpiece and listened.
“Who was it?” Montclair asked as soon as Vincent hung up.
“Chief Maddern, sir. He says it’s bad. If we don’t slow down, we’ll lose engine number one.”
As if on cue, the massive airship lurched left and then right. Fortenberry fell from his seat, nearly taking one of Greg’s Marines with him. Montclair gripped the edge of the table and braced himself with both hands as a pile of charts skidded onto the floor.
In the commotion, Montclair noticed Ueda standing at the far end of the room. The samurai seemed
unaffected by the movement of the floor beneath him. He stood gripping the hilt of his sword and staring through a porthole at the night sky. Montclair wondered what the samurai was looking at.
Vindication shook a second time before she resumed her smooth course of flight.
Major Vincent picked himself up off the floor and began collecting the fallen charts. “The chief said the engine casing’s strained, sir. It’s cracking. If it breaks and fails to contain that aether reaction. . .”
Montclair held up his clockwerk hand. “I know, Jasper. What’s our current position?”
“Best guess, sir? Seventy, maybe eighty miles south of Fairfax as the crow flies. We should be getting pretty close to the demilitarized zone. If we maintain current speed,” Major Vincent placed the maps back on the table and looked at his pocket watch, “we’ll reach Washington just after sunrise.”
The men and women in the war room began to argue over the appropriate course of action. Montclair rubbed his temples as they fought to be heard over one another. A wave of fatigue washed over him.
Montclair closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he held up a hand for silence. “All of you,” he hissed. “Quiet.”
The arguing ceased. For a few moments, they sat in silence. No one moved or spoke.
Kenshin Ueda’s eyes moved toward the porthole. The samurai favored Montclair with a nod and left the war room.
Copperhead jerked his head toward the hatchway. “Go with him,” he told Scarlet, “and take Mr. Fortenberry with you. He may be on to something. Lend the samurai whatever assistance you can.”
Greg turned to Montclair, a puzzled look on his face. “What the hell’s gotten into your Nipponese friend?”
“Not sure,” Montclair said, “but I’ve learned to trust Ueda’s instincts. If he’s on to something, he’ll let us know. In the meantime, we have bigger issues.”
The loudaphone went off again. Major Vincent grabbed the earpiece.
